Silence
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Mycroft's sick. Really sick. While that isn't going to make Sherlock hit the floor and spew declarations of love for his brother, that isn't to say he isn't going to be there for him. Rated T for the topic, mild angst/trigger warning.


**Silence**

"You don't have to look like that, brother mine."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Look like what? It's my face."

"And it's doing a thing," Mycroft replied, smoothing out his suit.

Sherlock huffed. "You sound like John." He flexed his gloved fingers, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"Maybe it's because we have a similar destructive force in our lives," Mycroft said pleasantly, looking over at Sherlock. "Our personalities have grown similar."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly. "Don't make such asinine statements, Mycroft, it's really not tasteful."

John was waiting for them in the lobby. He broke away from the wall, where he was nursing a head-cold and a strong cup of tea (head-cold was from surgery, the tea was strong because there was a distinct lack of backsplash on the cup meaning he hadn't poured milk into it), and strode over to them. "Hey."

"Good afternoon, John."

"I didn't think you'd still be here," Sherlock muttered, eyeing John's cup of tea with a strong amount of envy.

John looked at him oddly. "Well, I wasn't going to leave. And, no, you cannot have it. I'm still getting over the cold."

Sherlock exhaled heavily through his nose. "I don't know why you're here in the first place."

"I'm inclined to agree," Mycroft added. "John, it really wasn't necessary for you to accompany my brother. It wasn't even necessary for my brother to accompany _me_."

John shrugged. "It's good to have someone to be there."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "If you say so."

They lapsed into silence for a lack of anything else to say. John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock blinked at him. Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Anyway."

"Right."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft.

Mycroft looked back at him curiously, eyes devoid of emotion beyond that.

"... I'll go get you a tea, Sherlock," John said shortly, turning to stride away down the hall.

Sherlock watched him go. "... He abandoned me," he said, voice tinging with equal parts amusement and irritation.

Mycroft was watching him retreat, too. "I daresay he was unsettled by your floundering attempts to express emotion where it is undue."

"I don't know," Sherlock said, without looking away from the spot where John had vanished around the corner. "It's cancer. Isn't that sort of something that's 'due' emotion?"

"You concern is touching, Sherlock."

Sherlock hummed. "You remember Christmas?"

"Unfortunately so," Mycroft replied. "To which one are you referencing?"

"The latest," Sherlock replied. "The one where I poisoned you and killed Magnussen?"

"Most interesting Christmas yet," Mycroft mused.

"Oh, I agree." Sherlock paused. "Remember what you said to me before you passed out into the potatoes?"

"I did not pass out into the potatoes, brother. Your exile would have been more severe had I."

"Oooh. Might I have been exiled for ten minutes, then?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Mycroft made a noise that sounded halfway like a laugh. Sherlock still didn't look at him, but he suspected he was smiling wryly. "Do get on with your point, Sherlock."

"Where you were telling me about the six month mission," Sherlock said shortly. "And why you didn't want me to take it."

"Yes, I remember."

"Where..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "You said that my loss would..." he trailed off.

"I remember," Mycroft repeated, a touch of firmness edging into his voice.

Sherlock tried to focus on the sign at the end of the hallway. He couldn't read what it said from this distance. "... The sentiment's likewise," he said shortly.

Mycroft turned his head to look at him, but Sherlock didn't turn to meet his gaze. The eyes on the side of his head were distracting, but he refused to look towards them. After a moment, they moved away again.

Mycroft didn't say anything. Sherlock was infinitely glad for it; he didn't know what to say to begin with and he didn't want to dwell on the emotional part of this. He would accompany Mycroft to the hospital, yes, but _talking_ about it... they didn't talk about anything, much less something emotional.

"Well." Mycroft moved. There was a light _tap_ as the tip of his umbrella hit the hospital floor.

Sherlock melted from his position as well. "You're due back on Tuesday for tests?" he asked, finally turning to look at his brother.

"Yes. 11:30, if I'm not mistaken."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll meet you here. If I'm not busy." He would make sure that he wasn't.

"I look forward to it, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're a terrible liar."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Here I was, thinking I'd been fooling you all your life."

Sherlock cracked a grin.

"All ready?" John was back. He handed the paper cup to Sherlock. "I was going to get something for you, Mycroft, I forgot to ask, but I wasn't sure..."

"He doesn't drink vending machine tea." Sherlock sipped at his tea. "... I just remembered that I don't, either." He made a face and licked his lips, chasing away the remnants of the taste.

John laughed softly, shaking his head. "It's not very good."

"Mm." Sherlock put the cup back to his lips. He was more frazzled than he wanted to let on, so the tea - however tasteless - was something he was just going to have to put up with.

"So, are we good to go? Do you need anything while you're here, Mycroft?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No. Not for the time being, I'd imagine. We'll see come Tuesday. Shall we?"

Sherlock nodded and strode ahead, turning his coat collar up as cold air blasted past the heating of the hospital when the front doors slid open. Rain pattered against his face, blown by the wind.

"Miserable weather," John muttered, zipping up his coat.

"It's no wonder you got sick. Your heinous choice of workplace must be crawling with grubby-fingered people wiping their nasal drainage onto your things," Sherlock muttered.

"Not everyone wishes to entertain their inner sloth, Sherlock." Mycroft put his umbrella up, stepping outside.

"Oh, like you're one to talk. John?" Sherlock stepped aside and gripped John's shoulders, guiding him under Mycroft's umbrella.

"Sherlock-"

"Our of the three of us, I am currently the one who is most healthy, believe it or not," Sherlock said, ducking his head against the rain. "Besides, _I'm_ not going to stand under the umbrella with him."

"Sherlock," John chastised.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "How you wound my pride, Sherlock."

Sherlock laughed slightly, taking a small sip of his tea.

Come Tuesday, he'd be here again, and John probably would be as well, because John did those things, and they'd go through the same routine. Sitting in the doctor's office, never saying a word, idle-minded conversation in the hallways that meant nothing and everything, too.

Because that's how the Holmes Brothers did things: silently.

And, like the Holmes Brothers always did, they would overcome this as well. Together.

* * *

**John doesn't have a huge part, but I had to have him as a sort of buffer to the Holmes's awkwardness or it wouldn't have worked... These boys are tricky. The topic's even trickier. One of my parents got the diagnosis today that they have cancer, that's the reason for the fic. I'm sorting out emotions that, like Sherlock, I'd rather leave untouched and buried. It's... yeah, it's tricky. That's about all I'll say there.**

**(PS I don't hate Mycroft. I've been writing angsty stuff lately that puts Mycroft in all these situations. But I can't put Sherlock in them because that gets a bit overused in this fandom and putting John in those situations would hurt even more. I do like Mycroft. xD)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading!**


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